Dirty Money

Ivy standing like a statue, while that buffoon Jack puts his hand on her shoulder and laughs at us.

“Don’t know,” I mutter. I do know, though.

I still fuckin’ love Ivy. I still want her. If all she wants is my wallet, I’d take that as long as I get her smiles, her laughter, her sweetness . . . and I’d hope that over time, she’d come to love me, too.

“I do know,” Clay announces, and tosses something down on the table, knocking over beer bottles. “That’s why I decided to step in.”

I lean forward and pick it up. It’s a folder. Manila. There’s several pieces of paper inside. “What’s this shit?”

“It’s about Ivy. I hired you a private investigator so you could find out all the truth about Ivy since she wasn’t keen on sharing it. Find out her dirty secrets and all that.” He grins at me like a loon. “Or shall I say, Reba Lee Smithfield?”

“Huh?”

“Damn, you are drunk, aren’t you?” He reaches over and bats at my hat, knocking it off my face. “She changed her name, dummy. Her birth name’s Reba, like the country singer. Her sister’s Wynonna. If that ain’t a redneck calling card, I don’t know what is.”

Reba? My blonde, elegant Ivy is Reba? I flip open the folder and squint at the documents. Sure enough, there’s a picture of her driver’s license, a duplicate underneath it with a different name. Two years ago, she went from Reba Lee Smithfield to Ivy Smithfield, no middle name. Six months later, she got her real estate license.

“Shit’s pretty juicy if you ask me,” Clay drawls, crossing one foot over the other. “Lil’ Reba was an honors student back in high school. Student council, varsity academics, all that nerdy shit. Then a month before graduation, she drops out. Boom. Just stops showing up to school. You wanna know why?”

“Why?” I flip through the papers, curious.

“Her parents suck. It’s somewhere in there. Seems like her momma ran off and daddy got arrested at about the same time for robbing a liquor store. Sister was twelve at the time, so I’m guessing Ivy—sorry, Reba—dropped out to take care of her. Her employment history is all there, too. She’s worked just about every shitty minimum wage job there is—usually two at once. Still managed to get her GED and her real estate license.”

I flip through the paperwork. There’s her credit history—it’s terrible, and her debt-to-income is through the roof. I pull up a copy of her 1099 from last year. It’s from Three Jacks and she made all of four grand. Jesus. I think of her fancy, elegant suits and her expensive shoes.

I think of that beater of a car she drives.

I wanted to attract a higher caliber of client.

She wants to make something of herself. She wants a better life for herself. I know that feeling. I know what it feels like to be stuck in a hole and trapped by your circumstances. She’s clawing herself out, any way she can. I keep reading, because I have to. I see her dad’s arrest records. I see Ivy’s current list of bills, all far more than she’s bringing in. I see her sister’s school records and her upcoming schedule for college.

I see a list of plasma donations to private corporations in exchange for money, and my stomach clenches. I think of all the marks on her arms, and scan the dates. Some of these are two or three times a week, all at different places, never for more than fifty bucks a donation. That is fucked up.

No wonder she was so excited to get my business.

I close the folder and toss it aside, rubbing my face. I feel tired. Weary. Defeated. And so damn in love with her I don’t know what to do with myself.

“Well?” Clay demands.

“Well what?”

“She’s pulled herself up by her bootstraps, just like you,” my brother says. “Well, maybe not like you. You were successful. She ain’t there yet.”

I glare at him, because that sounds perilously close to an insult and I’m feeling more than a little protective of Ivy at the moment. I picture her working one shitty job and then turning around to go work another, all so her sister can keep the same roof over her head. I picture her dropping out of high school to go flip burgers, the very thing that those assholes laughed in her face about.

“Just wondering why you’re so mad about this shit,” Clay drawls.

I don’t even know if I’m mad anymore. I don’t know what to do. “Because she wasn’t who she said she was. She said she was Ivy, and she’s been Reba Lee the whole time.”

“You’re wrong. She made herself into someone new. She doesn’t want to be that old person. Don’t see why she’s gotta be tagged with her past for the rest of her life when she’s working so hard to change things.”

He’s got a point . . . but I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. “I picked her out because I wanted a lady. I wanted respect from all those assholes out there that think they’re too good for a few roughnecks that have more money than them.” Assholes like the Jacks.

Clay shrugs. “So get a new lady. One with a real pedigree.”

“I don’t want a new lady. I want her,” I growl at him. The thought of anyone in my life other than Ivy leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“So go get her.”

“I can’t have her and the respect I want.” The Jacks showed me that.

“You damn blasted fool-headed idiot.” Clay flings himself up from the chair, irritated. “You gotta decide if this ‘respect’ stick you got stuck up your ass is worth more to you than Ivy. Who the fuck cares if a few dumbasses in suits don’t respect you?” He slams a fist into his palm. “You make them respect you. If they think you’re trash, buy their businesses and burn ’em to the ground. Show ’em who’s their daddy.”

I laugh, because it’s a fuckin’ ridiculous plan . . . and it’s one I’ve already done before. I think about my new golf course, all burned out and nothing but ash and rubble. I have to admit that was mighty satisfying, blowing that shit up. Funny thing is . . . I don’t know if they respected me more when I destroyed the golf course, but it made them realize that I was in charge.

Maybe it ain’t about respect as much as showing them I got the balls to back up my talk, then.

I rub my beard thoughtfully. I started this whole thing because I wanted Bates to eat shit. I wanted him to realize I was someone to be respected, and I thought I’d do that with a big, showy house and an even more showy woman in my bed.

Thing is, though, none of that matters much anymore. I think about Ivy, and she’s really the only thing I want. I don’t care about a house with a pool and a staircase. I don’t care if I can swan in to a hoity-toity party and Ivy won’t know which fork to use.

But I think about never seeing her smile again. Never feeling her soft lips pressed to mine. Never seeing that sweet flush creeping over her cheeks when she thinks dirty thoughts about me.

That? I’d miss it. I miss it already. Feels like I’ve been hollow for days.

“I want Ivy back,” I tell my brother.

“Then go git ’er,” he tells me, like I’m the stupidest man in the world. And maybe I am, because I’m letting her get away.

That shit’s about to change.

Chapter Fifteen

Boone

“Jack here?” I ask, heading to the front desk. My accountant scuttles in behind me, holding his briefcase. I act like this is normal shit and smile. “Tell him Mr. Price is here to see him.”

The receptionist is all fake smiles for me today. “Jack Jackson, Jack Farrington, or Jack Richards?”

Like I remember? They’re all the same to me—con men and chauvinist assholes that talked over Ivy and tried to steal her business. I’m going to make them respect her . . . the hard way. I glance around the office, looking for a familiar blonde head, but I don’t see her. “First one,” I say, since I need to pick a name.

She nods and dials a number. “Mr. Jackson? Mr. Price is here to see you.”

Before she can put down the phone, Jack’s heading down the stairs toward me, all smiles. He’s even more orange today than last time. “Boone,” he calls out as if we’re great buddies. “I’m so glad you decided to come back.”

“Wanted to buy some real estate,” I drawl. “Thought you’d be the man to see.”

“I am absolutely the man to see,” he agrees, giving my accountant a curious look. He extends a hand to me and, when I ignore it, gestures at a conference room, his smile growing a little more forced. “Interested in the house I mentioned?”

“Actually, I’m wantin’ to buy a business office,” I tell him as we stroll into a fancypants tiny office with a ridiculous table. I look down the hall as we head in, but there’s still no Ivy. God, I miss her. Soon, I tell myself. You’ll see her very soon.

My accountant sits down next to me and opens his briefcase, pulling out the checkbook.

“Where’s Ivy today?” I ask.

Jack’s smile gets a little thin. “I’m sorry to say that Ms. Smithfield is no longer with the company. We had to let her go.”

“I see.” Rage burns in my gut. I think of Ivy—my Ivy—being cast out on her ass by this jerk. Ten bucks says she did nothing wrong. They’re punishing her for something to do with me. I clench my hands under the table. Today, I was just gonna buy this business and give it to her.

Now? Time for a new tactic.

“I can assure you that this won’t interrupt your business with us in the slightest, Mr. Price. There are many excellent real estate agents here—”

“Such as yourself?” I drawl.

He grins at me like we’re buddies. “Such as myself. So what kind of office are you looking for?” Jack asks quickly, changing the subject. “How many employees are you looking to house?”

“I want this office.”

His eyes widen. “This one? But it’s not for sale—”